


Lucky

by aw_writing_no



Series: Enough [2]
Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Animal Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-27 01:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18293777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aw_writing_no/pseuds/aw_writing_no
Summary: “Hey asshole, you missed dinner. If you aren’t dead or kidnapped, I’m going to kill you.” Frank paused, wishing he could take the words back, because there was a halfway decent chance Clint was bleeding out in a ditch somewhere. “I haven’t heard from you all day. Just let me know you’re safe, okay? Love you.”ORFrank Castle is a worrier. This is a problem when you're married to Human Disaster Clint Barton.





	Lucky

“Hey asshole, you missed dinner. If you aren’t dead or kidnapped, I’m going to kill you.” Frank paused, wishing he could take the words back, because there was a halfway decent chance Clint was bleeding out in a ditch somewhere. “I haven’t heard from you all day. Just let me know you’re safe, okay? Love you.” 

 

He hung up the phone, glancing at the the open bottle of red wine and two plates of homemade lasagna on the table. He sighed and went to the kitchen to look for Tupperware. He didn’t want Clint to come back hungry.

 

Another hour passed, then two. Frank thought about their last argument, where Clint had gotten pissed when Frank panicked after Clint didn’t call him back. He had spent an hour tracking Clint only to interrupt a coffee date between him and Black Widow. Maybe Natasha had just recruited his husband for some mission of her own -- Hawkeye wasn’t the only Avenger who was going off-script these days. 

 

Frank twisted the black steel ring around his finger. 

 

“Fuck this,” Frank said, pushing himself off of the couch. Max whined next to him, and he stopped to scratch behind the pitbull’s cropped ears. “Don’t worry, bud. I’ll go bring him home.” He took a moment to fill Max’s bowl, then stomped up the stairs to their weapons closet. 

 

He had his Punisher vest under a black hoodie and was stowing a variety of guns and knives on his person when he heard the door creak open.

 

“Clint?” 

 

“Hey babe,” Clint called, his voice cracking in a way Frank had come to associate with post-fight exhaustion. “Would you mind stowing Max in the bedroom? I’ve got a surprise for you.” 

 

Frank had to stop himself from running downstairs -- he wanted nothing more than to have his hands on Clint, making sure he was in one piece. But he also would do anything Clint asked, so he whistled for Max. The dog came trotting into the bedroom and hopped on the bed, tongue lolling to the side as he gave Frank his patented pittie grin. 

 

“Good boy, Max,” Frank said. He put guns and knives back in the closet, unzipped his hoodie and removed the kevlar vest. Then he gave in to the anxiety welling in his chest, closing the bedroom door before bolting down the stairs. 

 

“He’s locked up,” Frank said as he went towards the door. It opened all the way to reveal Clint leaning against the door frame. In his arms was a heavily bandaged dog that whined when Clint pushed himself off the wall with a grimace.

 

“Give a guy a hand?”

 

Frank rushed over to Clint, carefully taking the dog out of his arms and walking slowly to deposit it on the couch. He nestled it against a pillow before turning to help Clint limp into the apartment. 

 

Clint’s left eye was swollen shut, a trickle of blood flowing from his nose. His knuckles were bruised, and he was favoring his right side in a way that made Frank suspicious of broken ribs. 

 

“What the fuck happened?”

 

“So, you know those tracksuit fuckers I bought the building from?” Clint asked as Frank led to him to the kitchen table. He settled into a chair with a groan. Frank nodded. “I’ve seen them around a few times with this dog -- I even gave it a piece of pizza once on my way home.”

 

Frank snorted. “Of course you did.” 

 

“Anyways, I was on my home from breakfast with Natasha when I saw the head asshole  _ kick _ the dog.”

 

Frank bristled. “So you started a fight?”

 

“So I started a fight.”

 

“Did you win?” 

 

Clint grimaced. “It wasn’t going great for me. More guys appeared than I realized were there.”

 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Frank growled. “You should have called me. You know how much I like beating up animal abusers.” 

 

“I know, I wasn’t thinking. Anyways, one of the guys pulled a gun on me. Dog jumped up and bit his arm, got thrown into traffic.” Clint paused, took a deep breath. “It got hit by a car.”

 

“Shit,” Frank said. “That must have sucked to see.”

 

“Yeah,” Clint said. “Yeah, it did. I punched the guy so hard he hit his head on the curb... Pretty sure I killed him.”

 

“Good.”

 

“While the rest of the guys were checking on him, I ran into the street, grabbed the dog, and booked it to the vet.” 

 

“You went to the vet looking like that?”

 

“Yeah, they were a bit alarmed. Calmed down after one of the techs realized I was an Avenger.”

 

“Someone recognized you?” Frank couldn’t keep the sharp edge of panic out of his voice.

 

Clint snorted. “She thought I was Iron Fist.” 

 

Frank relaxed, smirking at the expression on Clint’s face. Then he remembered he was supposed to be pissed and let his expression morph into a scowl. “Why didn’t you call me and let me know where you were?”

 

Clint pulled his cellphone from his pocket and handed it to Frank, looking chagrined. The entire screen was shattered. “I didn’t know the number of your current burner.”

 

Frank clenched his jaw. “We have a landline, moron. You know that number.”

 

“Oh,” Clint said, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. “I forgot.”

 

Frank scrubbed a hand down his face. “Is the dog okay?”

 

Clint nodded. “He’s got a broken leg, hence the bandages. Some cracked ribs, mild pulmonary contusions. He got fluids and oxygen, stayed pretty stable. We need to monitor his breathing regularly, take him back if he’s in respiratory distress. Ultrasound didn’t show any internal bleeding or other organ damage.” Clint licked his lips. “He lost an eye, though.”

 

Frank knelt, cupping Clint’s cheek. He ran a calloused thumb over Clint’s split lip. “And you? Are you okay, sweetheart?”

 

Clint hummed noncommittally against Frank’s finger. “Been worse.” 

 

“Can I check you out? Please?”

 

“Of course.”

 

He took off Clint’s jacket, then paused at the sight of his t-shirt. “Can you take your shirt off with your ribs?”

  
Clint shook his head. “It’s a lost cause with all this blood anyways. Just cut it off.” 

 

Frank went to retrieve their sizeable first-aid kit and a wet washcloth. He used the bandage scissors to cut through Clint’s shirt. He gently peeled it away from Clint’s torso, frowning at the amount of blood. “Did you get stabbed?”

 

“Little bit.” 

 

“Oh, just a little bit stabbed, that’s alright then. I guess I should only  be worried if you have multiple fucking stab wounds.” 

 

“See, you get me,” Clint said, grinning at the glare Frank shot him. “I just need a few stitches, Frank. You’ve nursed me back from worse.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I like seeing you hurt.” 

 

“I don’t like seeing you hurt either,” Clint said. “Kind of the nature of what we do though, right?” 

 

“Right,” Frank grumbled. “Just hate that I wasn’t there to have your back.” He began to wipe the blood off Clint’s side, making sure he didn’t apply too much pressure. Once he could visualize the wound better he tore open an antiseptic wipe and ran it over the edges of the cut. He apologized when Clint hissed.

 

“Doesn’t look too deep,” Frank said. “Should be okay with just stitches.” 

 

They sat in silence as Frank sutured the cut closed, Clint taking deep, measured breaths as the needle pushed through his skin. Frank finishing closing the wound and ran his fingers over the rest of Clint’s exposed chest, probing gently at all the bruises. Then he stood and pressed a kiss to Clint’s forehead. 

 

“Gonna check on the dog.”

 

Frank went and squatted by the couch, holding his hand out for the dog to sniff. The dog licked his fingers, tail thumping against the cushions. Frank grinned. 

 

“He’s got a collar,” Clint said, watching Frank and the dog interact with a small smile. “Stupid fucking name though.” 

 

Frank looked at the tag and laughed. “Arrow? Seriously?”

 

“Right? So fucking dumb.” 

 

Frank gave the dog a final pat before walking back over to Clint. “I like it. ‘Arrow’ pretty much describes you.”

 

Clint reached up to tangle his fingers in Frank’s t-shirt, pulling him down into a kiss. “If we’re naming him after words that describe me,” he mumbled against Frank’s lips, “We’re calling him Lucky.” 

 

Frank smiled into their kiss, taking a moment to savor the movement of Clint’s lips against his own. He only pulled away when they heard a whine from upstairs. “We’re going to need to find the best way to introduce Max and Lucky. Not sure how Max will take to other dogs.”

 

Clint’s face lit up when he realized the name had stuck. “We’ll figure something out.” 

 

“We always do,” Frank replied, leaning in for another kiss. “I’ll take Max for a walk before putting him in his kennel for the night. Lucky will stay in the bedroom with us.”

 

“Sounds like a plan, babe.” 

 

“Then tomorrow morning I’m going to hunt down the rest of those tracksuit fuckers and show them what happens when you fuck with my husband.” He reached out to help Clint up. 

 

“See?” Clint said, accepting Frank’s hand and standing up with a grimace. He leaned into Frank so they could limp up the stairs, taking advantage of his position to leave a trail of kisses along Frank’s jawline. “I’m so damn lucky.” 

 


End file.
